chapter 5.3

The fading sunlight in the western horizon painted the sky in hues of gold and amber. The once lively Central Headquarter of The Wall had fallen into a somber silence, the sounds of Outcasts' laughter replaced by the heavy footsteps of newly initiated exiles, trudging toward their cold, merciless barracks. The evening air carried the scent of dry earth mixed with the lingering smoke of campfires, a silent reminder that this place was the final boundary for those cast aside by the world.

Away from the bustling camp, Alcard stood atop The Wall, where only the wind was his companion. He gazed beyond, over the vast land stretching beneath him, shrouded in the growing darkness of the approaching night. To his left, the massive stone wall bore the scars of time, cracks filled with moss and wild vines, a testament to its slow but inevitable decay. Once a majestic stronghold, it had endured countless seasons without proper maintenance, much like the Outcasts who defended it—surviving, yet steadily eroding under the weight of time.

A cold wind howled from the south, biting into his skin like an invisible blade. Alcard closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the chill to wash over him. In the stillness that surrounded him, his mind drifted to the past—to a life he had abandoned long ago.

The grand halls of Jovalian's palace surfaced in his thoughts, followed by fleeting images of the king's golden throne, the endless corridors lined with marble pillars, and the rhythmic march of the honor guard that once saluted him. But the clearest memory was the smile of the crown prince—the smile that had marked the beginning of his downfall.

He could still recall the moment he was accused of murdering the prince. He had just returned from a diplomatic mission in Edenvila, a task assigned by the king himself. But upon arriving at the capital, he was greeted not with honor, but with devastating news.

The king had died. And worse, the crown prince had been found murdered in his chambers.

A dagger pierced the prince's chest—a dagger that belonged to Alcard himself, a royal gift that had been in his possession for years. Somehow, it had been placed in the prince's body, making it appear as undeniable evidence of his betrayal. By the time he arrived, the court had already reached its verdict. He was the traitor. He was the murderer.

The echo of the nobles' voices condemning him still lingered in his mind, their accusations blending with the roar of the once-loyal citizens who now saw him as nothing but a criminal.

But the true horror was not the betrayal of his country.

It was the punishment he was forced to witness.

He could still hear his wife's desperate screams as the noose tightened around her fragile neck. His daughter, too young to understand, sobbed and called his name, her small hands reaching out—until her fragile body went still, lifeless, swinging beside her mother.

And Alcard—bound, unable to move, unable to stop it—had to watch everything.

One of the nobles sneered at him as the execution took place. "If you're truly innocent," the man taunted, "then prove it. Stop the rope from tightening."

But of course, he couldn't.

He had no power, no way to undo the cruel fate the world had decided for him.

After their deaths, he was exiled. Stripped of his titles, his honor, his family, and his very name, he was cast to The Wall—a fate worse than death itself.

The journey to his exile was a parade of humiliation. The people of Jovalian, who once praised his victories, now hurled insults and spat at him as he passed.

"You deserve worse than this."

"You should have been hanged like the traitor you are."

"The Wall is too kind a punishment for a murderer like you."

Bitterness, despair, and a hatred so deep it became a part of him had filled his soul that day.

And now, standing atop The Wall under a sky cloaked in darkness, Alcard opened his eyes once more. The past had not faded—it was a scar carved into his very being. No matter how much time passed, he would never be free of it.

His fingers clenched the cold stone of the Wall, feeling the rough texture beneath his skin.

"It's over," he murmured to himself. "But… can I ever truly move on?"

Oldman's words echoed in his mind, a familiar reminder that had kept him grounded over the years.

"Don't let revenge consume you, Alcard. It'll kill you faster than the Bloody Potion ever will."

And then, his wife's voice, a memory so distant yet so painful—her final words, her last look of sorrow and hope, silently begging him to live.

Alcard straightened his posture, his red eyes now burning with quiet resolve. He knew that his past could never be erased, but he still had a choice—to keep moving forward, to survive The Wall, to fight whatever came next, even if it meant remaining an Outcast for the rest of his life.

The wind howled louder, carrying with it the weight of silence. The last traces of twilight vanished, replaced by a sky dotted with faint, distant stars.

Without hesitation, Alcard turned and descended the stone stairs, leaving the past where it belonged—behind him.

His steps were steady, unburdened by hesitation.

"I will keep moving," he whispered to himself. "And if I must die… then let it be here, where I can finally atone."

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